Midnight
by en flor
Summary: The old crew has grown up, but not apart. FI centric.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

_15 Dec. An establishment that resembles something between a café and a diner. Two familiar friends occupy a table by the window._

"Patricia?"

"Senator Hearst now. She's throwing a party for her campaign committee, kind of thank you for her November election."

"Right. Sandy?"

"Out of town. Family in Malibu."

"Very nice this time of year. Candice?"

"I think it's 'Cameron' now."

"Ouch. Krista?"

"Well . . . let's just say that break-up did not go quite as well as I would have hoped."

"Ugh, Fillmore! This is getting ridiculous. At this rate, you better give your Mother a call."

Fillmore cringed slightly as he put down his mug.

"Uh, Ingrid, what is this? 'Cause I know it ain't coffee?"

Ingrid Third raised an eyebrow as she glanced over at her partner and best friend, Cornelius Fillmore.

"Convenient change of subject. You know it's not exactly my fault we're stuck going to this thing. You don't want my help, don't ask for it."

"No, seriously Ingrid what _is _this? It tastes like Vallejo's special brand of office aged coffee," Fillmore replied, eyeing the cup suspiciously, "And I'm not dodging. I really do appreciate the input. It's just been awhile. After Grace I kinda laid low on the dating scene."

On this last thought, Fillmore allowed his mind to drift. Three weeks ago, his on again/off again relationship with Grace had ended once and for all when she married Harold, a wealthy Manhattan executive. He wished her nothing but the best, and had told her as much at the reception. But it was the end of an era, and since then he had had trouble finding the enthusiasm to get back in the game.

Ingrid, of course, had more than understood. Knowing someone for thirteen years does that to a person. Though they had gone separate ways since middle school, the duo had never fully lost contact, and found themselves thankfully reunited three years ago serving on the X City Police Force, Ingrid having returned to pursue her own biomedical research at the local University. While her dual career choice was challenging and time-consuming, she was never too hard pressed to make time for such a friend as Fillmore. Coffee this morning was on her, as they wracked their brains for a solution to their current dilemma.

And moping over an old flame wasn't the problem at hand.

For the last two years Fillmore and Third had managed to evade the Mayor's New Years Eve Ball. Neither was overly fond of formal occasions, and so both had worked their magic to remain on duty whenever such events arose.

That is, until O'Farrell blew their cover.

_(Fade to yesterday afternoon, a busy uptown precinct)_

"Hey Fillmore, I think there's a glitch in the system! It says here you and Ingrid are pulling desk duty, and then walking the West side beat 'til 4. I thought Vallejo had all officers on rolling shifts so everyone could make the formal?"

Vallejo had been standing right over O'Farrell's shoulder. And he had been less than clueless.

"I expect the both of you to show your faces at the Mayor's Ball from 10-2. No complaints! And if I hear any more about hacking into the department mainframe I can think of punishments far more severe than an evenin' two-steppin' in City Hall."

On this last memory, Fillmore shook his head ruefully, and roused himself to the present. An hour before they were due at the station, Ingrid had brought him here to discuss their options over an early cup o' joe.

"Why don't I just go solo? There's no shame in bein' single," Fillmore continued, adding several Splenda packets to the rapidly cooling cup.

"So's the Mayor." Ingrid noted, wearing an amused but preoccupied expression. Fillmore followed her gaze to a young man wiping down the counter. With a coffee filter.

"Guess that explains the unique house blend," Fillmore observed, giving up and pouring the rest of his drink into a nearby, dying plant, "I take it he's the reason for the coffeehouse selection."

"More or less. I saw him reading _Anna Karenina_ on the front stoop the other day. Hopefully he'll be the conversationalist I'll need to get through the Ball."

"Sounds like a plan. A little warning next time though. I don't think I can stomach any more toxic waste for you to make conversation," Fillmore replied, pointing out Ingrid's own untouched glass of water.

"Right. My Bad." Then coming to herself, Ingrid returned her attention to her friend. "What about my college roommate? Tammy is almost certainly in town. I'm sure she could spare an evening of visiting with her folks to help out a friend."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on now. Are we talkin' about the same Tammy who protested lawn-mowing? Who designed a fashion line of clothes for her potbelly pig? Who wore aluminum headgear all Senior year to prevent 'them' from messing with her mind?" Fillmore asked, already knowing the answer. As if she was ever in her right mind anyway. "She might be a better match for O'Farrell . . "

"While eccentric, Tammy's actually quite brilliant," Ingrid carried on, ignoring Fillmore's less than eager response, "And she's always sort of had a thing for you anyway." Seeing he wasn't about to concede, she continued, "Just think about it. Aside from scouting the neighbors in your building, I'd say you're out of options."

"And out of time," Fillmore responded, checking his watch," We better roll." With that, the two rose to leave, Fillmore heading outside to start the car, Ingrid lingering behind to pay the bill and make quick small talk before heading to work.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dec 30th. The interrogation room. On one side of a small, brown table a petit blond sits tightly bundled up, shifting impatiently every few minutes. A powerful arctic front has recently swept across X City, making it reasonably chilly even indoors. Across from her Vallejo leans against the far wall, as Fillmore paces. He's preaching the value of justice, and doing the right thing, but the girl maintains her innocence._

"How very touching. Am I free to go now?" The young suspect interrupted, turning an insolent stare to the commissioner, "I have an appointment with the beautician."

"Sit tight. Fillmore and Third claim they've run across some new evidence. I intend to hear them out." Vallejo was remaining neutral; confident his leading officers had discovered something invaluable, but equally cautious of jumping to any conclusions.

"Haven't we been over this already? Look officer, that's a great theory and all, but you clearly have me on tape at the time of the theft. I never left the convention once, since I was covering for _The Daily X_. The girl looked petulantly from man to man, before continuing in a smug tone. "So you see, despite any grudge I may or may not have against Professor Burnaby, it still remains that I couldn't possibly be in two places at once."

"That's right. You weren't," Ingrid picked up as she entered the room. Her hair was windswept, and her cheeks a bright pink contrast to the rest of her pale complexion. But in her eyes there was a look of triumph. "Just returned with fresh pictures of the crime scene," she said, throwing down a small manila folder on the table. "Notice anything?"

Her smug grin dampening slightly, the blond flipped open the folder. "Yeah. There's black stains all over the place. So? Why should I care?"

"Now look at the photos taken the day of the theft." Ingrid replied, throwing down a second stack of photos."

"No stain . . ." Fillmore noted curiously over her shoulder.

"Exactly," Ingrid smiled, "Before stealing the chemical agent, the perpetrator threw what they _thought_ was water all over Dr. Barnaby's files, papers, and laptop, hoping they'd destroy all his years of research. But it wasn't water. It was a dilute mixture of silver nitrate. Secured in the proper container, silver nitrate is colorless. But once it's been exposed to air for a significant period of time it oxidizes, leaving a dark, permanent stain."

"Whatever," the blond responded, shoving her hands in her pockets, "I'm still not sure why I'm here. Why don't you just follow the thief's little black footprints home then!"

"In a manner of speaking, we did." Ingrid countered. "Victoria, remove your gloves and roll up your sleeves."

"What? Why? It's too cold in here, I'm leaving!" Victoria, now a touch paler than when the conversation had began, made to move towards the door.

But Fillmore intercepted her path. "I don't think so Vicky. Lets see 'em."

And with that, a far more meek Victoria Roberts slowly revealed two black be-speckled arms and inky hands. "B-but, this changes nothing! I have an airtight alibi!"

"Not quite. Your alibi is in the holding cell over, giving her statement. Anza will be in here momentarily to take yours," Fillmore chuckled, "And I think those arms have a date with O'Farrell's Nikon 940."

"Identical twins. Dawg, Ingrid how'd you find out?"

Twenty minutes later, Fillmore and Third were off duty and making their way to the back of the nearly empty parking lot.

"Dumb luck actually. You remember coffeehouse guy?" she asked, brushing a few errant flurries out of her bangs, "Well after you left Ariella's opening last night I ran into him at the gallery next door."

"And he told you Victoria had an identical twin? That _is_ lucky." Fillmore said, as they reached the car. "Ice scraper's in the back."

"I'm not that lucky," Ingrid sighed, taking a scraper and beginning to chip away at the windshield, "We started talking, and for the most part, we really hit it off. But throughout the conversation he kept making a number of what I could only assume were pop culture references. Curious, I looked up him up at X General Hospital . . . "

"Oh no," sputtered Fillmore, trying to smother his laughter, "You don't mean . . . "

"Oh yes. Sixteen years old. I cross referenced the X High School website. He's on the yearbook staff! Needless to say I was horrified," Ingrid trailed off, shooting Fillmore a dangerous glare. Fillmore, for his part, was laughing too hard to make a sound. "Anyway Victoria Roberts came up as I was sleuthing through the Hospital records. I looked it over and . . . ok Fillmore, that stopped being funny about ten minutes ago."

"I'm sorry Ingrid.' Fillmore said as the two piled in. "I thought he looked young! You probably baby-sat for him at some point. Sixteen! That makes him what . . . ten years your junior?"

"Nine. You know, you could be just a little sympathetic. That _was_ my plan for the Mayor's Ball. "

"Alright, alright I'm done," Fillmore said as he wiped his eyes. "It's all for the best. We can just go together. I would have had to pick you up anyway, seeing as how Old Blue died on you again this afternoon. How far did you have to run to make it to the station on time?"

"He broke down somewhere between Chester and Highland Street. I only had to run a block. But Old Blue won't be in the shop for quite so long this time. My mechanic says he found the part I need on ebay, so I should be up and running right after New Years."

"You know Ingrid," Fillmore began slowly as they turned on to Parkland Street, "Perhaps this time you should let Old Blue die in peace. I mean, that car was old when your Grandma bought it. What does that tell you?"

"That he's got a few more years in him yet," Ingrid grinned, "And besides, we do all the heavy duty bad-guy chasing in the unmarked patrol car."

"I hate it when they run," Fillmore chuckled. They had had more than their share of high speed chases since joining the force.

Pulling up to her building, he turned to his partner, "What time should I pick you up? Do you wanna grab a bite before headin' down?"

"I asked Tehama about it today. She said there's a pretty decent spread at the Ball, so I think I'll chance that there's plenty left by the time we arrive. I'm not exactly anxious to get there early. Should I meet you out front at 945?"

"It's a date."


	3. Chapter 3

Cornelius squinted both eyes as he straightened his tie for the fifth time. _Nope. Still don't got the hang of this._ He gave a little sigh. _Needs a lady's touch._

Looking up in the mirror, however, he had to admit that a slightly askew tie did little to mar his appearance. In fact . . .

And in one fluid motion the offending article was cast into the nether regions of his closet. _Ahh, _much_ better._

Fillmore wasn't looking forward to making small talk with the numerous politicians and beaurocrats X City had to offer. Yet now that the event was upon them, he had to admit, he was almost looking forward to it. _The suit makes the man. _He smiled to himself. _Who knows, maybe I will meet someone tonight. Lookin' this good I ought to. Oh what the heck._ Reaching down into the back of his top drawer, he retrieved the lone bottle of cologne he kept for just such a mood. _It's a new year, with new beginnings. And hey, worse comes to worse, I can look forward to a few hours of quality time with Ingrid._

_Now what did she say about this stuff? Right, use about one quarter of what I used last time._ Dabbing once, he chuckled as he thought back to the occasion that warranted such instruction. She had agreed to accompany him to a wedding that was a four hour car ride away.

" **. . . so we take 273 South until the Parkway, then swing a left. From there in, it's relatively . . . relativ- . . . Crackers, Fillmore, is that you?"**

"**Where? Is what me?" Fillmore began scanning passing billboards, signs, motorists.**

"**No, not there, here. Don't tell me you can't smell that? I thought it was the car, or a freshener, but when I leaned in to read the map," here she sniffed his overcoat directly, "but no, you're wearing some sort of fragrance, aren't you?"**

"**It's not a fragrance. I just slapped on a lil' cologne before we left. Open the window if it's too strong." Fillmore replied, a little more curtly than he intended.**

"**Don't—" Ingrid grimaced, "My hair . . ." Half her dark locks were curled and sprayed into a lovely up-do.**

To this day, she claims her sense of smell isn't what it used to be.

Fillmore patted his own naked head. Every so often he let it grow out for the sake of an undercover gig, but for the most part he prided himself on being low maintenance.

As he headed out the door, he ran a mental checklist. _Suit, shoes, coat, hat, wallet . . ._

_Keys._ He finished, grabbing them off the end table._ Time?_

Glancing at the clock, Fillmore raised a disbelieving eyebrow. _Snap. How'd I do that?_

On top of the VCR perpetually blinking _12:01 12:01 12:01_, a small lobster held two claws indicating Fillmore he had a little more than an hour's wait before Ingrid would be expecting him.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

_Let's see_, calculated Ingrid Third. _8:44. We're due at the Mayor's New Years Eve Ball at_ 10._ Fillmore and I agreed to leave at 9:45. It's a Friday, with nothing on T.V. Seven flights of stairs in nice clothes . . . he should be here right about . . ._

_"_Yo Ingrid, when are they gonna get that elevator fixed?" An all too familiar jangle of keys accompanied Fillmore's voice as it echoed from the front door.

_Right on schedule._ "As soon as Parnassus actually does time for his handiwork," she called back. No one in her building could ever remember a time when the elevator had worked-not even old lady Wellington on the 2nd floor. The individual flats were so large and inexpensive, however, that no one complained. Pinning up her bangs to the right, she came out of the bathroom. "What do you think? Too much?"

Fillmore turned to see Ingrid in, naturally, a floor length form-fitting black gown. The front scooped a little lower than her dresses tended to, but a deep red tie was tied loosely and tucked in neatly. Matching red arm bands stretched from elbow to wrist, stopping short of turning into the formal gloves that ladies often wore to such functions. A rose adorned a small bun from which a number of curly tresses escaped. Somehow, Ingrid had managed to look formal but retain that unique look she always carried about her. She looked radiant. She looked lovely. She looked magnificent. She looked . . .

"Tall," Fillmore commented, forgetting himself.

"Well yeah," Ingrid agreed, "I needed a little leverage if I was actually going to see you as we dance. You give the Green Giant a run for his money. But I was actually looking for feedback on the outfit."

"I've always said you've got style Ingrid. Looks great. Heads are gonna turn when we enter the building."

"We?" Ingrid smirked, suddenly noticing Fillmore's ensemble. "Maybe you mean I. What happened here?" She asked, waving her hand at his slightly rumpled collar missing clip, bow, or tie.

"Yeah, well 'bout that," Cornelius trailed off.

Not listening, Ingrid looked pensive for a moment before removing her own tie. Like a pro she weaved the red fabric into the perfect, straight knot Fillmore had been attempting earlier.

"No big," she said, stepping back. "Now we match."

Grabbing their coats, Fillmore offered a silent arm to his date.

"Uh, Fillmore? We've got seven narrow flights down. Chivalrous, but you can escort me once we reach the bottom."

"Seven flights down in those shoes? Ten bucks says you slip even with my support." Fillmore replied, elbow still extended.

"Psh. It's four inches, not four feet. I'll be fine." But she took his arm as they continued to verbally spar all the way to the car.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

_Hmmmm . . . good time to say a bit._

I'm sorry this is soooo slow going. I'm in the middle of a move now, so expect a delayedupdate. (But when I do, it'll be longer than the first three combined, I promise.)The next chapter I only use to reply to people's comments, so skip it unless you're one of my generous reviewers.


	4. Intermission

Hmmmm . . . good time to say a bit.

Phoenix'sSoul: Yeah, fanfiction can be funny that way. And everything in the city is X-something something. I figure, one of the big reasons to write fanfiction is to save time. You don't have to explain too much backstory, or describe appearances or personalities. They've been provided by the show, so I can spend more time on plot/dialogue. Any other description is merely an update. That can get you stuck though in future settings. So I opted the lazy way out instead of creating a few time-consuming OCs.

Marylssa: Sorry babe. Definitely headed there. But they're not teenagers anymore, so it won't be too melodramatic or over the top.

Alwayswrite: My stuff good! Wow. I was actually kind of afraid of receiving your review. Your stuff is just so much more well-written, and travels at a good pace. (And so very realistic.) I read it maybe three times. I was so surprised (and excited) to get such positive feedback from one so talented herself.

Silver Storm Dragon, SilverLastsForever: Thanks so much guys! I must be somewhat decent for seasoned writers to praise me. You're too generous. 

Anon: Thank you so much! Comments like that and I just may finish the fic! Enthusiasm can be so contagious.

EreshkigalGirl: She's branched! But she's still true to her roots. 

StarStar16, Blah: Thanks! I'll do what I can, but again, I'm moving so it may be a bit.

Moon Gurl: Glad you liked it. I think I cover some of what you're saying below, which is kind of a general warning to readers. I haven't written fiction since . . . ever, so yeah, some parts probably wander too much. Romance is on the way though.

Finally, to anyone looking for big adventure; my apologies. The crime-fighting they do is more of a backdrop than anything else. I mention it in passing because it's so integrated into their lives. Sometimes I go a little more just as a break from the nonaction. For the most part, I write about the in-between moments they share. So there's not a lot going on, but it's somewhat inferred they lead fairly busy lives off the page.

This_ is_ going somewhere mind you. It's just a normal, romantic sort of somewhere. As extraordinary as they are, I think it's kinda funny that one of the most exciting developments to happen to them would come about in one of the most ordinary ways.

That said, I'll be the first to admit I'm not really much of a writer. I would write adventure/romance if I could, but I simply have no experience, save what you've just read. I started watching Fillmore! over winter break and really liked it, so I just wanted to throw something out there to hopefully generate interest and stimulate others to write as well. (I much prefer reading to writing.)

So criticisms are welcome, but for me this is more of a free-writing exercise. I type it up, and submit with little to no editing.

Um, this somehow ended up way too long.

Cheers for now.


	5. Chapter 4

A soft melody tinkled through the entrance hall as Third and Fillmore made their way in from the cold. The muffled sounds of people laughing and singing accompanied the tune, filling the dim corridor.

"We must be the last of shift two to arrive." Ingrid noted, removing her coat. "Sounds like everyone is inside."

"Careful Ingrid," Fillmore said, dusting the flurries off his overcoat, "The marble floor is covered in water. Could be slippery." He glanced around him in dismay at the wet remains of snow from each guest's wintry arrival. He then looked down at the large, absorbent front mat on which he stood in the doorway. It somehow had remained miraculously dry_. Guess everyone was in a hurry to party._

"Can't say I'd mind a fall. Leaving early is a high priority." Ingrid smiled beside him, stamping the snow out of her shoes. Then adding with a snicker, "And Fillmore, as I recall _you_ were the one who tripped down the stairs heading to the car." Giving her left foot one last emphatic stamp, she looked up. "I'll be fine. You, however, may need a little help." With this, she extended her arm to him, in mock courtly airs.

"I'll take it. But you have to admit, that thirteenth step _is_ tricky." Fillmore grinned. Linking together, they splooshed towards two enormous wooden double-doors standing some fifty feet away. As they approached the large handles, Fillmore paused, casting her a sidelong glance. "Ready?"

"One minute till we're due inside. Let's go for extremely punctual." Ingrid sighed, adjusting her clip one last time.

"Not an optio, O'Farrell, put that dow!"

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

"I thought you were _off_ duty O'Farrell," Cornelius stumbled into the ballroom, rubbing his eyes. "My eyesight'll never recover. Not cool dawg."

"Sorry chief!" Danny quipped, not sorry at all. "But you two don't have the best of track records! Vallejo wanted documentation of both arrival and departure." Tucking thepolaroid into his pocket, he snatched an appetizer tray from a nearby table, "No worries, it'll wear off. Ya gotta try some of these shrimp h'our derves though. They're just fabulous." Popping in half a dozen, "I camf gem nuf ofp fese. Oooh! Mawonis!" And with that, he turned to tail a passing waiter.

"What was that, the flash of a thousand suns!" Ingrid said grumpily, following the sounds of their voices. But as her sight gradually returned, she cut herself short. "Fillmore?"

"Yeah?"

"I take back everything I've ever said about City Hall."

"Yeah."

The vision that lay before them was nothing short of magical. A crystalline chandelier cast glimmering lights in every direction, giving the entire hall a candlelit glow. Plush, red drapes hung down towering windows, cascading to the ground. The white marble floor led to a stage at the far opposite end, upon which a live band was in full swing. Large resplendent fir trees sat on either side of their entrance, and tropical flowers adorned every surface. Small circular tables flanked the dance floor, while a large buffet ran down one wall. To call it a buffet was preposterous, for in reality a feast of grand variety and color covered the length, nearly too beautiful to eat. Uniformed gentleman wandered the hall carrying champagne and snacks on silver trays. Women in all manner of dress sailed through, in gowns of every shade, cut, and size. Eyes seemed to sparkle. Everyone was smiling. The longer Ingrid looked, the more she saw. It was too much to take in.

"How long have we been standing here?" she finally thought aloud.

Pulling out of their mutual stupor, each gave a nervous chuckle. "Let's go grab some grub," Fillmore said, nodding his head towards the culinary delights a small crowd stood admiring.

"Sounds like a plan." Third agreed, as they headed in the direction O'Farrell had wandered off to.

Gazing at an enormous fruit tray, for the first time Fillmore found himself indecisive. Everything in this colorful selection was clearly ripe, and there were many fruits he enjoyed. But also included were a number of items he couldn't identify. Of these, a large five pointed yellow fruit rose several inches to meet his face.

"Starfruit," Ingrid encouraged, "From Bali. You'll love it."

With a raised eyebrow, Fillmore bit the fruit from her hand. "I do." After a moment's inspection, he popped in the rest. "Crispy. Sweet. Almost like a much larger grape. Anything else here Balinese?"

"Well . . ." scanning the array, Ingrid plucked a few items. "It seems they've managed to pick up a few Lychee and . . .," turning to Fillmore, her eyes had caught something just past him. "Oh."

"Oh what?" replied Fillmore, looking curiously behind him. To his surprise, a very familiar figure was winding towards him from several yards away.

"Cornelius Fillmore, I do declare! It's been a long time stranger. Too long." A tall statuesque blonde glided towards Fillmore, a huge grin on her face. A scooped, sleeveless pink satin dress clung to her curvy form, with matching gloves slightly past the elbows. Diamonds accentuated her neck, ears, and wrist, while her long smooth curls were collected in a ponytail. "I hardly recognize you. You clean up right proper for a kid from Cleveland." On this, she encompassed Fillmore in a good-natured hug.

"And you've come a long way from Bellatrix, Mississippi. Congratulations Senator Hearst." Fillmore responded, returning the embrace. "That's a lotta ice you're wearing. Should I be on duty?"

"Hardly. It's on loan, insured, and definitely not mine. But why am I not surprised? No rest for the watchers I suppose." She took his hand. "I guess some things never change."

"I guess you could say that." Fillmore beamed as she sidled up next to him. "This really isn't my thing." Gesturing around him, "A better cliché would be something along the lines of 'You can take the tiger out of the jungle, but you can't take the jungle out of—"

"Oh, nonsense Cornelius, I won't hear of it! You look positively dashing tonight. It should be mandatory that you attend these functions."

"Actually, it is," Fillmore chuckled. "My partner and I," at this he turned to find Ingrid MIA. "Ingrid Third, she's around here somewherewe used to have a system for skiving off these events, but . . .let's just say Vallejo found us out."

"I can only imagine. Let me guess, that O'Farrell boy? Just finished talking to him. He'd make a great informant, if only he was a member of my _opponent's_ party." She giggled. "But his heart's in the right place, for sure." Offering him a plate, she continued, "Cornelius, we must catch up properly. Join me at a table? I'm positively famished."

"Same here," Fillmore said, taking both his and her plates. "Why don't you find us some silverware, and I'll start loading our dishes with the good stuff?"

Grinning ear-to-ear, Fillmore turned his attention from her retreating form to the buffet line. Suddenly frowning, he paused.Backing up a few steps, hecarefully pick out several Lychee.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Forty minutes later, Ingrid groaned inwardly. Yes, this place resembled the most beautiful of palaces from any number of fairytales. Yes, the music was lively and entertaining. And yes, she enjoyed dancing.

But her dance partner. Oh her dance partner.

Her fourth dance partner to be exact. A touch-screen voting machine lobbyist. Just in for the holiday from D.C. Very wealthy. Very successful. A condo in the Highlands outside of X. Would she like to see this condo? The view is spectacular. Property values have skyrocketed since his purchase. Very expensive. But would she like to see it? Just a very short drive from the ball. His car is very fast, top-of-the line.

_I'm beginning to dislike slow, romantic ballads._ Ingrid sighed._ He was fine until he opened his mouth._ Putting on a fake, but appreciative smile, Ingrid prepared to disengage contestant number four.

"Excuse me," a voice from her left interrupted. "I must insist to cut in, my good sir."

Faster than the hopeful young man could sputter a protest, Fillmore had skillfully twirled Ingrid's grateful eyes to the center of the dance floor.

Another spin, and they were face to face. "You looked like you could use a wingman." Fillmore explained. "So who was Mr. Right? He seemed . . . charming."

"If by 'charming' you mean 'pretentious', and by 'right', 'never.'" Ingrid closed her eyes momentarily. "I should have sat out three songs ago. Do I look dirty to you? I feel slimy."

"No, not at all . . ." Cornelius replied, somewhat softer.

Clearing his throat, he shifted gears. "I take it you've been dancing up a storm tonight. You disappeared before I could introduce the new and improved Patti Hearst."

"Oh, I know when and how to make myself scarce," Ingrid retorted with a devious look. "So how is she? Do I need to call a cab to get home?

"What? No . . . er, no . . . no, of course not. We're just friends. She's doin' well, and I'm doin' well, but that's it. We're just two friends, doin' well." Under her skeptical stare, he continued, "Well, she certainly didn't cancel her own private party plans to see me. She received a personal invitation from the Mayor."

"Huh. What about her campaign staff?"

Fillmore shrugged sheepishly. "Have you noticed that the waiters seemed a little . . . ruffled?"

Incredulous, Ingrid stopped mid-step. "Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately. There may have been a vibe, but trust me, it's all on her end." Fillmore said. "It was great to touch bases, but that's definitely another chapter of my life closed."

"Well if she's too disappointed, she can have the voting machine lobbyist." Ingrid giggled. "You're too independent. She'd be happier with Mr. Condo-in-the-Highlands. He's eager to please, and great dancer. Intelligent conversation isn't his strong suit though."

"You don't say." Here, on the upswing of the second stanza, Fillmore dipped his partner with the beat, drawing her up slowly as the rhythm abruptly slowed again. Ingrid had to laugh.

"You're not so bad yourself. Where'd you learn these moves?"

"Picked up a few during the Menendez case last month. Remember, the 'dancing snitch'. Wouldn't give info without a beat." Brushing an errant strand from her face, he asked, "So, still missing coffeehouse boy? You could call him. I bet he has a whole twenty minutes till curfew . . ."

"Still repressing that. But why do you ask"

"Well, you mentionedthat lobbyist, was it?that while he danced well, he wasn't exactly stimulating intellectually. Would you prefer someone like coffeeboy? Only, as an adult?"

Ingrid smirked. "Naturally. Though to be honest, I may have set my standards too high even for him. Few people enjoy discussing the subtext of Russian novels. Most don't even finish _Anna Karenina_, let alone debate the various themes at play."

"Indeed. The central theme of _Anna Karenina_ is very complex. A rural life of moral simplicity, despite its monotony, is the preferable personal narrative to a daring life of impulsive passion, which only leads to tragedy." Fillmore paused. "It's a mouthful, and there are many ways to interpret such a conclusion."

Ingrid visibly started.

"Didn't want to let you down. You were looking forward to a thought provoking conversationalist right? Well, he's right here." Another dip, this time not so deep.

"Filmore . . ." Ingrid twirled beneath his arms, "_Anna Karenina _is well over 900 pages long. Detailed descriptions, long segwaysdon't tell me you read the whole thing in two days." She fixed him with a stare he couldn't identify. _Part impressed. Part flattered. Part . . . touched?_

"Hey, I may not have photographic memory, but given the right motivation I can . . . aw, _snap_."

"What?" Ingrid asked, although she remained somewhat bewildered, preoccuppied, her attention still fixed on Fillmore. "What is it?"

"The Mayor. She's on the stage. And who do you see pouring the bubbly a few tables over?" Twirling her out, Ingrid managed a quick, solid look in the direction Fillmore pointed.

Shocked, they finally stopped dancing altogether.

"James"

"Bradson."

"I'm guessing Patricia never invested in a background check."

James Bradson. International hitman. Escaped from three federal prisons. The last incarceration courtesy of team Fillmore and Third. Now it was looking like he was planning a little payback. Snuff the Mayor in room full of cops. Some of the Nation's top cops. The headlines would be glorious.

"50 bucks says that isn't just champagne he's pouring into the Mayor's flute."

"Let's go."

Without another word, the pair split. Ingrid walking brisklynearly joggingaround the perimeter of the room, Fillmore taking a direct path, at a slower pace so as not to be spotted.

_When did this hall get so long?_ He thought. Bradson, in feeble disguise, was already heading to the group of elites the Mayor was entertaining. _I'm closing in, but not fast enough._

Glancing behind him, Bradson caught Fillmore's approach, and quickened the pace. _SNAP_. Both broke into a run. By this point Bradson had scrapped the tray, and was fidgeting with something concealed in his breast pocket. _I'm still too far away._ Fillmore realized desperately._ I'll never make it in time. _Then, out of the blue, came Ingrid.

She had made better time around the room. Bradson, not seeing her in his peripheral vision, hadn't registered her presence speeding towards him seconds earlier. He was actually running at an angle nearly intercepting hers. Launching herself from the wall to his right, Ingrid executed a mid-air tackle to put any pro-NFL player to shame. There was a flash.

With renewed energy, Fillmore was the first of several officers to reach them. Rolling him onto his back, he locked his arms tight, another officer producing cuffs, and another emptying his pockets. A syringe labeled 'Mayor Folsom' was confiscated.

As on duty patrollers entered the fray, Fillmore turned to his partner. "Excellent airborne maneuver Third."

"I think I got it on film!" Danny shouted, walking up to the duo.

Ingrid, however, remained sprawled on the ground. Fillmore extended his arm to giver her a lift up.

"Uh, Fillmore? I think I need more than a hand. More like something along the lines of wheels." Hair frazzled, rose smashed, she lifted a corner of her ripped dress to display an ankle bent in entirely the wrong way. Leaning forward, she winced.

Removingthe shoe gingerly,she conceded. "Not too high to walk or dance in. But clearly not the footwear of an officer in combat."


	6. Chapter 5

Standing on one foot, Fillmore kicked the door to his place closed while he juggled the stack of packages in his arms. A thin veil of steam escaped one of the bags, bathing his face in the warm smell of—

"I can't believe Papa Zhang's is open tonight," Fillmore grumbled, shifting his weight to lock the door, "I mean, except for City Hall and the Country Club, it's a ghost town out there."

"Well the Chinese New Year isn't for another couple of weeks." Seeing his hands full, Ingrid began attempting to rise from her position on the couch. "Don't complain. Zhang has the best ::_oomf:_: Chinamexican cuisine around."

Not wanting her to fall down the staircase in her own building, Fillmore had insisted on late night grubbing at his place after checking out of the emergency ward. It was closer, only two floors up, and had an elevator. So he had dropped Ingrid off in his humble abode, lent her some sweats to compensate for the torn gown, and then returned into the night to venture for hot take-out.

"Not if Fao Yung's Fajitas have a say about it." Fillmore chuckled. Spotting Ingrid over a container of refried wontons, he gave a shout that startled her into falling back down. "Nuh-uh Ingrid! Don't you try comin' over here on that bad foot. You just sit tight. It gets there when it gets there." Plopping down the load on the counter of his kitchenette, he then began rummaging for the necessary amenities.

"It's a sprained ankle with a side of broken toe Fillmore." Ingrid called back, "Definitely no big." Rather than receive another rebuke however, she stayed put. "And why is there so much food? _You _ate before the bust, and I only ordered the lemon chicken empanadas."

Returning with utensils, sauces, and several food cartons, Fillmore started setting up the spread across the coffee table. "First of all, in my opinion, that's one pretty important toe." He poured two glasses of champagne. "As for the food, well . . . I may have mentioned the evening's events to Zhang. He threw a lot of this in, on the house. Says he'll send Jin over every day if you need errands run. Poor boy, he looked horrified. Seven flights several times a day, carrying groceries or whatnot."

Fillmore laughed. "Ah, the pitfalls of being the proprietor's nephew. I bet Zhang sends him to China to deliver his personal messages."

Finding her empanadas, Ingrid giggled as well. "Guess I'm not the only one having a crummy night." She began counting off on her right hand. "Roped into Ball, danced with succession on slimeballs, tackled an international assassin, missed the banquet . . ."

"Go ahead and view the world through rose colored glasses Third." Fillmore smirked, as he began messily stuffing some gamba lo mein into his mouth. "Juf be glab I gob your bacf."

"That's true." She nudged Fillmore with her shoulder. "My last dance partner was downright charming."

"Yeah, well, it's a shame you didn't catch his name." Fillmore winked back. "I hear he'd been waiting to cut in all night."

Ingrid blushed slightly. "You don't say."

They ate in silence, momentarily lost in thought. Until they reached about the fifth bite.

"Trade?" Fillmore broke the pause, changing the subject and sliding the gamba lo mein to Ingrid's side.

"Please." She tentatively smiled, handing her carton to him. "Since when have I ever ordered the dish that I actually want? It's like tradition. I can only like what you pick."

"Exactly. It's why I can't eat there solo anymore." Fillmore grinned, laying waste to the remaining empanadas. "I don't remember how to choose for myself."

"Well, that shouldn't be a problem tonight. There appears to be one of everything on the menu." Ingrid noted, gesturing to the expanse of foods arranged around them. "We could hole up here until the next New Year."

"Tempting," Fillmore laughed. "But let's not go there. This stuff never keeps longer than a day or two." Sipping his glass, he continued. "Keep it to the present. What made this year the most memorable for you?"

Ingrid thought a moment. "It may not be the most life-changing event, but I'm gonna have to go with. . ."

Ingrid felt herself relax a little as their usual banter began to pick up again. As they made casual quips mocking Danny's style or the Mayor's bombastic persona, however, a part of Ingrid's mind went back to review the night's events. Conversations replayed themselves over and over, screaming at her to probe below the surface, to look deeper. Something seemed to have shifted. Fillmore doesn't normally hold back with what's on his mind. For that matter, when did she start blushing at his jokes?

Meanwhile, Fillmore was conducting his own little self diagnostic. Here he was, at his pad, chowin' done on the best food to be had, sharing New Years Eve with the best company to be around. Being with Ingrid was usually the only time Fillmore felt totally content. Relaxed. Now he just felt . . . like something was missing from the usual dynamic.

_Or maybe it was never there_. A sudden, two-pronged thought struck Cornelius: One, he had been hitting on Ingrid tonight. Even more shocking, he couldn't recall if tonight was the first or simply one of many instances on which he'd done so. Second, neither of them were talking anymore.

"Heh heh .. . .maybe we can catch the ball drop," Fillmore spoke aloud, breaking the silence, and his own train of thought along with it. Finding the remote underneath the couch cushion, he flipped on the TV, which came to life in an abrupt display of color and sound.

The majority of the screen showed a rebroadcast of the throngs of people singing in Times Square, midnight having long since come and gone. A small corner, however, featured a telecast by the local newsgirl, informing area residents of the late breaking news.

"_Once again, our superb X City Police Force has thwarted the fatal plots of one James Bradson, a serial killer wanted by Feds in over—"_

Mute.

_Wait, what? Mute?_ It took Fillmore a moment to register that the moving pictures weren't making any sounds.

Still a little unsure that she really wanted to find out, Ingrid finally asked what she couldn't figure out alone. "Fillmore . . . what are we doing?"


	7. Chapter 6

_Flashback: Several weeks previous. Two figures (in formalwear no less) spar up and down a half-court topping a towering high rise. Church bells ring joyfully thirty flights below, from a church situated on the city block corner._

"Dang Ingrid! Where'd you pick up such mad skills? You never joined a single game down at the precinct!" Luckily for both Fillmore and Third, New York City was experiencing one of the warmest Novembers on record. His tux jacket lay discarded on the sidelines, along with Ingrid's heels and purse.

She stole the ball for the second time in as many minutes. "Yeah, well the rules of basketball are fairly simple. And I've watched you pummel Danny and Anza both individually---" With a smooth spin and a lay up, Ingrid pulled ahead, increasing her lead from 3 to 4 points, "---and together. I've picked up a few tricks here and there."

"When we get home—and man can't I wait to get back to X---" Fillmore half smiled, taking the ball back up court, "you are definitely joining my team for the next two on two match." With that, he dodged her block to sink an easy three pointer from the corner.

"On one condition," Ingrid panted, returning to the half line, "You fill me in on one thing."

"Shoot." Fillmore replied, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Okay then. I will." With a leap she launched the ball across the court. Touching the rim, it spun once, twice, three times . . . then lodged itself firmly between the backboard and the metal frame of the hoop.

Both officers simply stood there a moment, a peculiar expression marring their faces.

"On second thought . . ."

"Oh no you don't _Cornelius,_" Ingrid turned to her partner. "I still get to grill you."

Emotionally, and now physically exhausted, Fillmore sighed, and slumped down on the ground next to his jacket. "Well you did win. Go on. Ask away."

"Fillmore, what are we doing?"

"Uh, Ingrid? Care to elaborate on that one?" Fillmore accepted the water bottle she handed to him, (though how it originally fit into the depths of such a tiny handbag he couldn't figure).

"Right. We're here, playing B-Ball. The wedding reception, _Grace's _wedding reception, is two floors down, in the Okinawa Suite of this prestigious Hotel Dénouement. Not that I mind the exercise, but I somehow doubt we flew out here to enjoy that fresh New York air." As if on cue, the big apple decided to show its love just then. A gust of wind overturned the garbage bin next to Fillmore, encircling him with its smelly, moldy contents.

"_Bad word_." Muttered Fillmore darkly.

Kicking aside the ring of refuse, Ingrid stooped over to extend her hand to Fillmore. Grabbing it he pulled himself up slowly, only to suddenly and unexpectedly find himself taken aback as she drew him into a tight bear hug. (This was slightly amusing, since without her heels, she just barely reached his shoulders.)

A few seconds later, Ingrid withdrew. "C'mon. There's a bench under that tree over there. I'll listen. You spill."

_And now, a flashback within a flashback . . . _

**Grace stood gazing into the full length mirror propped in front of her. In just under half an hour, she would no longer be the single, lonely, penniless poet residing in the bohemian district of X City. She would become Mrs. Grace Lexington. A new life awaited her; security, a family, trips to the Opera, and impromptu vacations in Paris. She only hoped that one Cornelius Fillmore wouldn't make a scene. **

**A knock at the door. _How does he always do that?_ **

"**Come in."**

**Through the reflection in the glass, her guess was confirmed as Fillmore quietly shut the door behind him.**

"**You make a beautiful bride." **

"**I've been waiting for some time to be one."_ Alright. As Neil would put it, I think it's time for my 'game face.'_ "I'm so glad you could make it Cornelius." She allowed him a light hug, so as not to wrinkle the dress. "Are you here alone?"**

"**Naw, Ingrid's saving me a seat on the end of the third pew. Wouldn't want to miss your entrance." He looked down.**

**A firm lipped smile crossed Grace's features. "Yes, well I'm glad _she_ could come too. I never did say good bye to all your comrades on the forc--"**

"**Do you love him?"**

**Startled, Grace turned back to mirror, watching Fillmore, and choosing her words carefully. "That's not the point. He loves me."**

**She ****wrung her hands, searching for the words to explain, without hurting her former beau. "I come first in his life. When we're together . . I never wonder where his mind really is, or where he'd rather be, or. . . _who_ he'd rather be with. Because it's _always_ with me. I've never had that before. I've waited a long time to find someone who needed _me._" She sighed, "The way I once needed you."**

**Fillmore closed the distance between them. "Grace, how could you think that? That's just not true! I . . . we . . ."**

"**What we had was wonderful while it lasted, Cornelius." She faced him once again. "But I'm ready for more. Harold makes me very happy." She took his hand. "And I hope you'll be happy for me as well."**

**Somewhat choked, Fillmore forced out a terse reply, "Of course. I just . . . didn't picture us this way."**

"**I know." She sighed. "Neither did I. But it's for the best." She stroked his cheek. "It may be awkward for awhile, but I've known you for far too long now to stop being your friend." She cupped his face. "If you ever need anything; I know a great insurance agent."**

**Fillmore nodded, and gave a short laugh. Harold was of course much higher up than 'agent,' but Grace was never one for business jargon.**

"**I guess. . . I guess, I'll see you at the reception," he sniffed, "Mrs. Lexington."**

"**I better!" She grinned, misty eyes wishing him one last goodbye. Organ music began as Fillmore made his hasty retreat . . . **

_**Fade back**_

"How could she say those things?" Fillmore moped, kicking a can as they paced up and down the rooftop court. Sitting had proven futile, since he was so restless. "We were great together. Yeah, we had our arguments, and needed a little space from time to time, but I never guessed that the last time we broke up it would actually be _for good_. . ."

Ingrid paced beside him, her right arm linked with his left, listening patiently to his encounter. "Well. . . she was right you know."

Fillmore stopped to face Ingrid. "How do you figure?"

Ingrid looked forlornly at her friend. "Fillmore, I know you both loved each other very much. But name three things—any three things---that you had in common."

He stared blankly into space.

"Any three things on planet Earth."

Continued silence.

"You both loved being in love. But a marriage needs to be based on something more substantial than that. Romance is great, but as I recall, you guys couldn't find the time to spend together, and when you did, you couldn't sustain a conversation for more than five minutes without arguing. There was nothing you could agree on. Remember the 'Sir Fluffkins' incident?"

"She called the cat baby! She wanted me to call it baby! And I was not about to let that thing sleep with us. To this day I've never met such a hateful creature. I still have the scars." As proof, he undid a cufflink, rolled up the sleeve of his tux shirt, and pointed to three nearly imperceptible marks. "Bit me when I tried to reach for my own plate! I'm glad your komodo dragon got loose that Thanksgiving!" Looking at them thoughtfully, he remarked, "I never did thank you for that. I hope Halbert is doing fine at the X City Zoo."

"I'm sure he is." Ingrid grinned. "So, all things considered, how are you feeling?"

"I guess, well, I know you're both right." Fillmore started, "But I just feel so empty. So . . . alone. At the end of the day, despite our differences—"

"And her French poetry. . ." Ingrid smirked.

"And her French poetry," Fillmore cringed, "at the end of the day, she was always there."

"Fillmore," Ingrid said, "_I _will_ always _be there for you. You will never be alone." She looked at him seriously, "Despite lab work, or cases, or boyfriends, and even family," she refastened the cufflink, "You will always be first to me."

"And who knows," she continued, as they resumed walking, "Maybe you're ready for more as well. Who's to say whether it's next week or next year you meet the new Mrs. Fillmore? I just hope we get along better than Gracie and I."

"Yeah," Fillmore smiled, laughing genuinely for the first time that day, "You guys got along about as well as . . . well, as well as Halbert and Sir Fluffkins."

"What can I say?" Ingrid chuckled, "She grew up with Barbie dolls, I grew up with voodoo dolls. Can't say I didn't try though."

At this point, the pair arrived by the stairway down, as well as their cast off belongings.

"Ingrid," Fillmore began, feeling much, much better, "Thanks. I think I'm ready to rejoin the reception now. Give Grace my best wishes, and all that jazz."

"We could do that," Ingrid stooped down, picking up her left shoe, "Or," she threw the clog a hard right, hitting the basketball, and sending it back to the ground, "We could play one more round before retiring inside. I'd rather miss the bouquet toss, if you don't mind."

"You're on," Fillmore agreed, dashing out to get first dibs on the new play.


	8. Chapter 7

Under normal circumstances, Ingrid Third made an excellent detective. Bright, clever; it never takes too long for her to put two and two together, and figure out whatever riddle of a case she and Fillmore are cracking. Normally.

Had she been in a theatre, watching the movie of her life, the answer to her question would have been painfully obvious. Rolling her eyes, she might have heaved a drawn out sigh, allowing an exasperated 'Oh come on!'

But this was no movie. On some level, her mind had worked out that something major was amiss, something that had been brewing for a long time, bubbling, daring to break the surface. Yet for all her brilliance, Ingrid Third simply could not arrive at the most reasonable, logical conclusion there was.

Her mental roadblock was easy to identify: fear. The friendship she shared with Fillmore was one of the most enduring aspects of her life. In a crazy world where few things could really be counted on, in him she'd always found someone to relate to. And tonight, they weren't relating.

Tossing the remote to the side, she finally turned to face him, only to see that he had been staring at her, smiling . . . in a dreamy sort of way. _What? _She thought indignantly. She had asked him a question, albeit quite vague in nature, but which nevertheless set her nerves on edge, her heart fluttering against its will. Anxious even. Yet here he was, calm as can be, grinning like the Cheshire cat, as though he had some sort of secret.

"Ingrid, do you remember the last time you asked me that? At Grace's wedding reception?" Fillmore asked, still looking like he had won some kind of prize.

_Oh. _Ingrid thought, a little put off. _Now this is making much more sense._ Feeling somewhat abashed, and a little foolish, she realized that she had read all the signs wrong. Charming at the Ball, moody after her incident with the bust . . . he was doing what all people tend do on the New Year: reflect. He probably still held a residual attachment towards Grace, and conflicting emotions about having one. _Of course._

Setting aside her own feelings, Ingrid searched her memory. "Sure I remember. Only we weren't exactly at the reception," she paused. "We spent a little time on the roof so you could . . . work things out before heading back down."

"Right. And do you remember what my answer was then?"

"Well, basically what I just said. You needed time to deal. You spoke with her before the ceremony, and that was hard."

"Yeah, well she said a lot of things that day." Fillmore heaped generous amounts of Kung Pao salsa on his wontons. "Some things that I didn't really see until tonight."

"Oh Fillmore, don't start that again. You were a great boyfriend who did what he could to make it work. Some things just weren't meant too." Reaching over, Ingrid helped herself to his refried wontons, dipping her chopsticks into the carton now drowning in hot sauce.

"Naw Ingrid, I'm not talking about Grace and I. I'm talking about you and me."

Ingrid froze, wonton poised three inches from her open mouth. Turning to Fillmore, a look of disbelief, she lowered her food. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no of course not."

"So then everything's fine?"

"Yes. Why do you worry so m--"

"So then what's bothering you? If it's something I--"

"Argh! Ingrid, let me finish." Fillmore cut her off. "Everything is fine, but . . . not fine." Seeing her eyes widen, he continued, "Do you remember Grace's main complaint? She said that whenever we were together, she never came first. That she never knew where my mind really was, or where I'd rather be, or. . . _who_ I'd rather be with." He grabbed her hands, which had long since set aside the chopsticks. "I think I know where it's been all this time."

"Fillmore. . ," Ingrid stuttered, "You're my best friend. My partner. I don't . . ."

"Look, we may have started out as just friends. But I feel like we've only become closer since then. I mean, heck, when this conversation started, we were at opposite sides of the couch." He chuckled. Sure enough, at some point in the conversation each had taken to migrating from their respective ends of the six foot long sofa. Now mere inches, not feet, apart.

The air itself seemed electrified.

**KER-CRASH-BANG!!**

"THREE, TWO, ONE, HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!" cried O'Farrell, banging in the front entrance. Behind him trailed nearly half the force, _the_ force, all of their friends and coworkers that had followed them not just through middle and high school, but beyond to this brave new world of adulthood.

"SURPRISE!" Shouted Vallejo and crew, heavily laden with food, drinks and party favors.

"How did you get in? What are you guys doing here? What's going on?" Ingrid and Fillmore shouted in tandem, though not in the same order.

"Spare key, party, and it's always midnight somewhere," O'Farrell grinned, checking his watch. "In fact, Anchorage is coming up in fifteen minutes!"

"You can't save the day, nay, the year, and then miss out on all the fun! We brought the festivities to you!" Tehama cheered, perhaps more than a little buzzed on their gleeful ambush.

"Took a little wrangling too," chimed in Anza, his disembodied voice wafting through a massive bunch of balloons, "but we rustled up some grub seeing as how y'all didn't really get a chance to sit down and enjoy."

"Looks like we needn't have bothered. Nice spread." Vallejo helped himself to a teriyaki chimichanga, "And nice work tonight guys. I mean it. I couldn't ask for a better team." He licked his fingers, before standing and continuing to the room at large, "Or a better department. I am honored to work with you people. To know you. This year has been great, and every year just keeps getting better. . . ."

As Vallejo entered motivational speech mode, a quick and efficient network of glasses were rapidly disseminated throughout the room in anticipation of a New Year's toast.

" . . . so Happy New Year. Again." Vallejo finished wryly, raising his glass, "And no more countdowns O'Farrell. You've hit every time zone twice, and even I know that ain't right."

"Fine, but then I get a toast too," Danny conceded. "Cheers to you, Cheers to me, Have a Happy New Year's Eve!"

"Here's to the days of good will, cold weather, and warm hearts." Anza replied.

"To peace on Earth, good will towards---aw, c'mon guys, it's a classic---"

As everyone cast out their well wishes, Ingrid glanced over at Fillmore. He looked like some strange cross between flustered, annoyed, and amused. She could have laughed. Here they were on the cusp of something . . . something . . . and waylaid by bad rhymes and well-meaning praise. His right hand periodically raised a glass to each toast, while the left lingered in hers. Even with this cacophonous disruption, he'd yet to drop it.

"To good friends and good times."

"To less paperwork, and more action."

"To spectacular ends. That was quite a New Years Eve bash---seriously, you guys need to come every year!"

The circle finally made its way to Ingrid. She turned to look directly at Fillmore, and squeezed his hand. "To new beginnings." And they closed the distance between old and new, what is and what was, and more importantly---

" . . . about time!" O'Farrell murmured into his champagne.

Eventually they sang Auld Lang Syne and let themselves out.

-------------------

A New Years toast to love and laughter

and (finally) happily ever after


	9. Concessions

66 Reviews. That is ridiculous, on so any levels.

Horrible update-track record.

First attempt ever at fiction, fan or otherwise.

Cartoon show which has long since finished its run.

I do not deserve the praise. I can only hope I have not failed you incredibly patient readers. If so, as I said before, I am prepared to do one shots of your choice as penance.

I have to say, this ending . . . nothing like the original one. But in a way, I think that's better. Trying to recapture what I had . . . wasn't working. Sometimes a turn of phrase, or moment of inspiration comes, and you have to jump on it. Kinda like double dutch. If you miss it, you miss it, but other opportunities will present themselves. My only real regret is that this final chapter was despairingly short. I tried, really tried, to stretch it, but who really wants 8 pages of party banter and sidelong glances, and yet more 'talks'. Doctor Phil, I ain't.

Ok, enough babbling. Roll credits!

Thanks to AlwaysWrite for the continued praise, encouragement, and gentle kick in the butt. Sorely needed and appreciated. But really, way nicer and kinder than I deserve. I swear, my inner chronometer was like, 'Oh yeah, it's been like five weeks.' Um, no. In all honesty though, I have a shiny new job that should be much more conducive to online pursuits.

Kates Master: I'm a good one? Heee. Many many thanks. If you want more, please drop me a line. Prompts are good to get me going.

Different Child, Dragon Huntress, anon, Aly666, Queen S of Randomness: Your reviews (as well as the two fellows mentioned above) reminded me that I was actually being read. Therefore, I should finish in a non-sucky way, and not just throw up any old thing.

Everyone else: Many thanks for the kind words, and my apologies for making you wait. Hopefully, I have not wasted your time.


	10. Optional Coda

Alternate ending/ AU Epilogue/ Optional Coda

It was a perfect night.

So, no they weren't discussing literature. Or tearing up the dance floor. Or pigging out on junk food.

They were pouring their hearts into one another.

Ingrid kissed him like she had no other before, fervently, rapidly and all over. The first liplock had been deliberate and concerted. Now her method reflected her state of mind, hectic, passion overflowing. It was like they were making up for lost time. She kissed his nose, his cheeks, his lips, his ears, all in succession. The revelers had left some half hour ago. She and Fillmore (Cornelius?) hadn't left the couch.

For his part, Fillmore had traveling hands in lieu of lips. He traced her jaw, caressed her shoulders, and ran his fingers through her hair. It was the best form of paradise that, now known, he could never imagine not knowing.

_The something missing---from before---was that longing? Or was longing present but unfulfilled? _Thinking was terribly difficult at the moment, but then, he did not feel all that pressed to do so.

But too soon, and too quickly, it would be vitally important that he manage to.

"Fillmore—" Ingrid breathed, and he smiles into her kiss. Even now, she uses his family name. Surnames it is then.

"Yeah Third?"

"Heart . . . race—ing . . ."

He grins again. "Me too. Mile a minute." She could not be more beautiful, he thinks, hand gliding to the small of her back.

"No . . . not that . . . race-ing, but abnorm . . . .not right." She has stopped kissing, and now braces herself on his arms. She's not kissing him, but she's clearly out of breath. Fillmore pulls back a little, still in a daze, infatuated at the sight of her in his old sweats, hair disheveled, rosy cheeks---that seem to be draining.

This sobers him enough to reach over and check her pulse, the carotid just under the jawline. While his mirrors a jogger warming up, hers is clearly not right---like a terrified mouse sprinting for its life. On speed.

Ingrid watches him count and calculate. In a disconnected way she knows something's not right, but she remains calm, trusting Fillmore implicitly to tell her how bad it is.

And 60 seconds never seemed longer. As he watches the clock and times the beats his eyes catch Danny's polaroids strewn across the table. On top rests Ingrid's amazing feat of interception---- the midair tackle shows her right knee connecting with Bradson's stomach, just before she lands on that foot and breaks it. She has a vice grip on both his arms, but his left, the hand bearing the syringe intended for Mayor Folsom, is bent at the elbow. And the angle almost looks as though . . .

_**No**_, thinks Fillmore. _No no no no no no no no no no no no no . . ._ and he begins to panic in earnest, grabbing her left arm, and rolling up her (his) sleeve.

_No. Impossible. It was full at the scene. It didn't break, and Ingrid would have mentioned feeling . . . she would have felt . . . but no, we went to the ER, the nurses would have seen . . . Ingrid would have saw . . ._

Nothing. All clear. The front of her arm is clean. On the back there are her three perfect little moles in a neat and perfect little triangle.

Except there are four, and it's a diamond.

So small. So small, but he sees it, and even though he knows what it will be, is horrified to find out, he absolutely must.

The teeny tiny (fresh) little scab flecks off easily.

And Fillmore feels dead in his chest.


End file.
